


Heroes Fading

by exybee



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Anti-Hero, M/M, Newspapers, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-06-16 20:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15444855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exybee/pseuds/exybee
Summary: “Investigative journalism is dead, Josten. Haven’t you seen Fox News?”Or, Neil Josten is a hot-headed reporter with poor survival instincts and a bone to pick. Andrew Minyard is a masked vigilante with a loose moral code and a vendetta of his own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had a note but ao3 is dumb so just know I love everyone who's helped me get here.

Neil wakes with a start.

His face is plastered against his desk, damp with sweat. Fragments of his nightmare are stark against the white of his walls. He rubs a heavy hand over his eyes, wiping away images of butchered limbs and bloodied knives.

There’s a near-empty bottle of bourbon at the edge of his desk, a grim reminder of just how disappointing last night’s investigation was. Grabbing it, he chases away the taste of sleep—and the hope that his migraine will subside—and tosses it into the bin.

Neil’s too shit to recycle.

He steps around his research, a loose binding of police documents, witness reports, and newspaper clippings, and stumbles into his kitchen. The blinds are drawn back and dewy light splashes him in the face, gentle and bright and incredibly nauseating. Outside his window, the hum of the city intensifies as traffic picks up and street vendors set up shop.

Sitting precariously on the counter is his laptop, still open from last night’s dive into the latest Moriyama scandal, the one that’s landed two scapegoats fifteen years in federal prison. Each.

It’s not the first time the Moriyama family has used their influence to disentangle themselves from legal backlash, but it will be the last, if Neil has anything to say about it.

Functioning as the smallest—but deadliest—branch of the Yakuza, the Moriyama Clan commands all of New York City’s criminal underworld. Not long after his father’s death, Lord Ichirou Moriyama seized control of the Empire, and with his extensive connections and distinct taste for blood, became the most dangerous man in America.

They were conquerors first and visionaries second. A city overrun with crime was no more than a business opportunity. A way to save face and create a legitimate source of revenue. Buying out a failing construction company was only the beginning of the Moriyama’s backhanded operation. Soon, they were pouring millions into restoring the city, gaining favor of citizens and public officials alike. Fast forward to now, and Lord Moriyama’s political sway has the Bratva at his mercy and New York’s finest dabbling in embezzlement.

Neil scrolls through the tabs, eyes landing on an email regarding the Moriyama press release later this afternoon. He isn’t officially invited—he may have asked the IT guy to hack into the Chief’s distribution list—but he’s already processing a way to get his hands on a clearance badge. It’s borderline insulting that Trojan Sun, Manhattan’s version of National Enquirer, was CC’d and he’s sitting here twiddling his thumbs, and it has everything to do with his Editor-in-Chief, David Wymack.

Neil’s worked at the Palmetto Tribune for more than two years, and with three years of freelance under his belt, he’s more than qualified to run the story that will send the Moriyamas back to hell, but Wymack pulls the plug every chance he gets.

His writing is sound, the evidence lines up, and he’s even got the perfect headline, but every pitch ends up in Wymack’s shredder and Neil’s a bad day away from calling Teen Vogue back.

Though it’s not like he can walk out. He’s a shit columnist. (Unfortunately, Wymack knows this too.)

It hasn’t been easy, but ten years, four name changes, and a faked death later, it’s safe to say Neil’s settled into his life as a reporter. Unfortunately, spending most of his formative years as a teenage runaway has robbed him of most social skills, leaving behind the tendency to lock his doors twice and a rather nasty temper. Not the best qualities for a journalist.

It helps that he’s always had a one-track mind, but not even a nomadic lifestyle prepared him for the countless nights where the only thing keeping him awake is a curious blend of lukewarm coffee, antacids, and generic painkillers. And while there is nothing quite as sharp as swallowing down the frustration of not knowing where he’ll be in six months, there’s nothing more important than covering the story.

And Wymack’s taken him out of the race before he’s even got a chance to run.

He slams his laptop shut. He knows better than to trust other journos, but he needs Laila. Plucking his phone from the charger, he starts an email to the Trojan’s Editor when his inbox dings.

From: David Wymack (david.wymack@palmettotribune)

To: Neil A. Josten (neil.josten@palmettotribune)

Get your ASS here.

Fuck.

* * *

After passing through security—he knows where to hide his knives—Neil walks into the newsroom, taking measured steps as he slides past a few interns chatting around the water cooler. There's an idleness in the air that Neil’s learned to associate with his colleagues. It takes form in rustling papers and small talk about weekend plans, but Neil’s never quite managed to become comfortable around sedentary people.

Neil may have a small, totally insignificant preference for the old days. When reporters were out chasing down leads and packing away lunch in gas station parking lots instead of filing paperwork and day-drinking at the lunch spot on 8th Avenue.

Like he said, insignificant.

Slinging his bag against the back of his chair, Neil wanders into the conference room in search of his Editor-in-Chief. The room is made entirely of sleek glass windows—tempered, as per Wymack’s orders—that face the side of The New York Times, a spot Neil’s not sure they deserve. They’re borderline tabloid journalism, and would be if owner and heiress Allison Reynolds had her way. Fortunately, they are saved by the 17 x 11 rule, or as Matt likes to say, the only inches that matter.

Matt Boyd is the Tribune’s copy editor, though he finds himself in the sport’s section more often than not, and one of Neil’s two friends. Matt had insisted on the label a week after they met, and Neil, on the account of never having had a friend before, went along with it. Dan Wilds, Matt’s fiance and Neil’s second friend, is the Tribune’s News Editor who more or less does Wymack’s job—Wymack acknowledges this but insists he’ll retire when he’s dead.

There’s a thickening of interns near the projection screen and Neil has to stand on his toes to catch a glimpse of Wymack at the head of the conference table, turning up the volume as Katie Mccormick, Channel 6’s go-to newswoman, prattles on about the city’s newest vigilante.

Rolling his eyes, Neil flicks his attention to the report. He vaguely remembers catching an earful at the corner store last week. He scoffed then and he’ll scoff now. Even with Wymack throwing virtually all of his story pitches into the trash, Neil can’t fathom sinking _that_ low.

Wymack cuts the volume off.  “Alright. Enough, back to work.”

Neil takes a step aside and watches the crowd dissipate. A few of the interns smile at him, but his eyes are trained on Wymack, a tactic he’s learned has little effect on his Chief, but still makes him feel somewhat threatening.

There’s a knock at the door, and standing in the doorway is Abby Winfield, Wymack’s assistant. She gives Neil a tight-lipped smile and hands him a stack of papers. Neil skims the first few lines.

“What the fuck is this?”

Wymack doesn’t turn around, and Neil fights the urge to give his chair a hard spin. “The environmental study you were supposed to do on Brooklyn’s toxic water situation. Hand it to Alexis on your way out. I need you on this vigilante. Set up an interview with the Chief. I want a quote from every single person he’s ever come in contact with."

It takes a moment for Wymack’s words to sink in, but Neil’s mouth is always prepared. “Excuse me?” Okay, somewhat prepared.

Facing him, Wymack takes off his glasses and rubs a hand over his eyes. “I need you on top of this, Josten. There’s a story here, and no one does unbiased better than you.”

In another situation, he would’ve snorted, but now Neil has to restrain himself from crumpling the stack in his hands. “I don’t do opinion pieces.”

“Debatable.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“You’ll do whatever I tell you to.” Wymack crosses his arms over his chest, and a cluster of tattoos peak out from underneath his sleeves.

“Why can’t Dan?”

“Do you want to have a job Monday or am I gonna have this piece on my desk by then?”

“You want me to write a piece about a dumbass running around in a mask, but you won’t run my piece about the Moriyamas? The people who, if we’re still pretending this is a goddamn Avengers movie, would be the _actual_ villains.”

Wymack shakes his head. “I can’t believe I haven’t fired you yet.”

Neil takes that as a sign to continue. “People need to listen to what I have to say. The Moriyamas have the entire city in their pockets—”

“And that’s exactly why I killed it. I’ve been doing this for almost thirty years, kid—”

Neil sputters. “Save that shit for some fresh-faced reporter. This isn’t about getting my name out there. It isn’t about fame, I’d do anything—”

“Yeah, you’d do anything to get yourself killed. You,” Wymack points a finger. “Aren’t able to make rational decisions about your person like the rest of society. You’d nosedive off a bridge if you thought it’d make a good story.”

“Bullshit.”

Wymack leans forward, forearms pressed against the table. “Do you know what we risk if you’re wrong about the Moriyamas? Have you ever thought about what would go down if you’re wrong? Are you willing to risk the lives of everyone you work with? I’ve got an entire staff to worry about.”

“I’m not wrong,” Neil says, defiant. “Why’d you get into the journalism game? To run pieces about men in tights or to facilitate change with hard-hitting pieces? Because I’m here for the latter.”

Wymack lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t give a damn, Josten. Have that story on my desk by Monday. Now get the hell out.”

Neil turns on his heel and heads for the door. “Wait. Neil.”

His hand hovers above the doorknob as he contemplates slamming the door or turning back and having the last word.

Deciding on the latter, he turns. Wymack eyes him minutely before continuing. “Be careful with this guy. People are calling him a vigilante, but the police aren’t so sure he meets the criteria. His methods aren’t exactly legal, and NYPD is thinking of making it a Federal problem.”

“I thought he was saving people?”

“All I know is that there’s a trail of bodies and not enough answers. If he doesn’t start cooperating with NYPD, the Chief is gonna put out a warrant.”

“The fuck you want me to do?”

“I need you to take all that,” Wymack motions towards him, “and turn it into something useful. Get as much information as you can, as _legally_ as you can. Got it? I can’t afford anymore lawyers. Jesus Christ.”

* * *

From: Neil A. Josten (neil.josten@palmettotribune)  
To: Laila E. Dermott (l.dermott@trojansun)  
Subject: You owe me one, remember?

I need a favor. 

Best,  
Neil A. Josten  
Senior Journalist

 

To: Neil A. Josten (neil.josten@palmettotribune)  
From: Laila E. Dermott (l.dermott@trojansun)  
Subject: Predictable as he is beautiful. 

Let me guess, you need the invite for the Moriyama press conference?

Regards,  
Laila Dermott  
Managing Editor

 

From: Neil A. Josten (neil.josten@palmettotribune)  
To: Laila E. Dermott (l.dermott@trojansun)  
Subject: I don’t appreciate your tone.

Am I really that predictable? (Can you email it by two?)

Best,  
Neil A. Josten  
Senior Journalist

 

To: Neil A. Josten (neil.josten@palmettotribune)  
From: Laila E. Dermott (l.dermott@trojansun)  
Subject: Shut up before I report you as spam. 

Yes (and yes). 

Regards,  
Laila Dermott  
Managing Editor


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is late, but life... happened.
> 
> Thank u Morgan for all u do!

The journalism world, as Neil has learned, can be condensed into a delicate, more primitive version of his life on the run—the difference is slight: more politics, fewer gunshot wounds—and if there’s anything he’s picked up as a fugitive, it’s that you have to take what you want.

And what you can't take, borrow.

Neil doesn’t waste time debating the merits of his plan—it’s a terrible plan—but as he’s jogging up the courthouse steps, he can’t help but feel the impact of Wymack’s threats and the bruising realization that he is, essentially, signing his death certificate.

Or his resignation, at the very least.

Reaching the top proves to be a challenge, even for Neil, as the humidity clings to his body like saran wrap, weighing down his breaths until he’s practically breathing underwater. Neil looks up as the sky shifts above him, something akin to dirty dishwater. If he unfocuses his eyes, he can imagine himself swirling down a rusted drain and into the pipes underneath the city.

Sounds like the last ten years of his life.

Neil flashes freshly-printed credentials at the security guard and passes through the metal detector with ease, having left his knives at home. The lobby is packed with journalists, chatting and checking their recorder batteries and naturally, as Neil spares a group a quick glance, he recognizes Kathy Ferdinand from Fox News, head tossed back in an artificial laugh.  

Catty altercations are frequent and near unavoidable when Kathy is involved, and Neil is already on the cusp of penning one dramatic news headline, so he lowers his eyes to sleek marble floors and curses Wymack in three languages. Fortunately, Kathy is too busy showing off her newly acquired diamond necklace to hound Neil and he finds his escape in an unguarded door and slips through, almost colliding into an awkwardly placed boom stand.

After a few hurried apologies and a scribbled alias at the sign-in table, Neil is seated and checking his recorder once, twice, before setting it on his lap. He waits for a piece of conversation to drift his way, something interesting he can float on, but the chatter dies down as the mayor, followed by a few detectives, walks up to the platform.

An unassuming man, short and blonde in a crisp uniform takes the lead and adjusts the podium. “Good afternoon. My name is Chief Aaron Minyard and I am here on the behalf of the NYPD. On the evening of October 11th, my officers received a tip ascertaining the whereabouts of the two individuals involved in the operation and management of the company, Allied Investment and Marketing, Inc., through which a significant amount of money was laundered. The two suspects, Kakuji Sakamoto and Kazuo Takumi, were taken into custody on multiple counts of racketeering and money laundering. Their affiliations with the Moriyama conglomerate are unknown at this time; however, it is in the process of being investigated. That being said, our detectives are convinced that these men acted alone—”

Neil’s ears are ringing as the Chief continues, and he doesn’t realize he’s standing up until the recorder falls to the tile. “Mr. Mayor, would you care to comment on the convenient nature of these arrests?”

“We are not taking questions at this time—” the mayor begins as the Chief holds up a hand and interrupts. “The NYPD was given multiple leads that when investigated, proved to be promising. Given the substantial evidence, my men and I are confident that the right call was made.”

The fact that Neil is able to keep a relatively cool expression is beyond him. The Moriyamas are bathing in dirty money, that’s a given. But money laundering? The Clan wouldn’t stoop so low.  The thought gnaws at Neil’s insides. The Yakuza does not let their business become known unless they intend for it to be. This isn’t a scandal. This is an inside job.

He pushes past the heat and through clenched teeth says, “And the credibility of this tip was, of course, reviewed, correct?”

The Mayor makes an uncomfortable noise, but the Chief doesn’t back down. “What, exactly, are you implying?”

“Call it healthy skepticism,” Neil says, mild. “I’m curious as to where this oddly convenient lead came from. Or were the police so desperate to make an arrest that simply called in the first hot tip they got?”

There’s a shuffle as people turn in their chairs. “What paper are you affiliated with?”

Jesus Christ, he really hasn’t thought this through. “Trojan Sun,” he says in a mild panic. Hopefully Wymack isn’t tuned in to his local news station. He grabs his recorder from the floor and all but runs out of the conference room.

* * *

“Going behind my back to that press conference is one thing, but _accusing_ the _mayor_ of what is essentially obstruction of justice?” Wymack is pacing the room now, and Neil, sitting across his desk, fidgets uncomfortably. Most of his encounters with middle-aged angry men involved Nathan and his followers, and Neil has to count to ten in every language he knows before his fingers unclench and relax by his side.

Neil’s mouth curls something sharp. “I didn’t accuse him of anything he hasn’t done. Or any of them, for that matter—”

“Shut up,” Wymack snaps. “Just shut up for once. I’m one good reporter away from kicking your ass to the curb.”

“It doesn’t make sense, Wymack.  Money isn’t an issue for a multi-billion dollar conglomerate. Those two men were nothing more than puppets and that conference was nothing more than a show. The real question is: why are they keeping up the ruse? What are they trying to distract us from?”

A long moment passes before Wymack says, “Even if I were to believe you, on what grounds can you even base this on? I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t the first time a high-profile company has gotten into hot water about fudged numbers.”

Neil chokes around a bitter laugh. “You call this hot water? That’s what they want you to think. Everyone’s under their control. City officials, government leaders. Hell, even the papers have turned a blind eye.”

“Then why come to me? Apparently, you shouldn’t trust me either.”

It’s not the first time Neil’s thought that, and honestly, his upbringing hasn’t allowed him to completely rule it out either, but he has to believe that if Wymack worked for the Moriyamas, he would’ve wiped Neil out long ago.

He doesn’t say any of this, instead, he spits, “I don’t. All I know is if you can't stop them, I will.”

Wymack shakes his head and is about to speak, but Neil interjects with a quick, “You know I’m right. Why are you protecting them?”

Wymack jerks as if Neil hit a nerve. They both still, toeing the line between professionalism and an all out bar brawl, but Wymack, apparently, decides against socking Neil in the face and levels him with a look that’s both troubled and disapproving.

“Believe it or not I’m protecting _you."_

Neil would’ve preferred the hit.

Wymack continues, “I don’t know what you’ve been through, and frankly I don’t care, but I can guarantee it’s nothing compared to what the Moriyamas will do if you keep this shit up.”

It shouldn’t sting, but it does, and Neil pushes past the venom pooled in his mouth. “It doesn’t matter. It’s our job as reporters to—”

“Report the news,” Wymack finishes. “Nothing more.”

Neil nods and doesn’t mean it. Then after the storm clears, both outside and in the newsroom, he packs his workspace and heads downtown for his second, highly unauthorized, nightshift. The light fades into dusky gray and Neil pulls his coat tighter against his frame, wondering what Wymack would have to say about what he’s about to do.

Then again, Neil doesn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short but it's here *shrugs*
> 
> Coming up: Andrew swoops in (literally) and Neil has a Few Issues with modern day Heroism. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos make the heart grow fonder. Thank you so much!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the End Notes. <3

* * *

There are only two reasons why you’d find Neil Josten crammed in between overworked and overwrought workers in a subway car in Lower Manhattan: a Cuban sandwich with extra pickles from Lou’s Cabana or a private meeting with British Tycoon and local gangster, Stuart Hatford.

The lack of a mustard stain on his collar is both telling and infuriating.

He gets off the train and checks his bag before joining the shuffling crowd. The subway stairs are colored electric where light splashes against the damp concrete and Neil takes the steps two at a time until he reaches the landing. Manhattan vibrates around him, mirroring his harsh breaths and disrupting his thought process.

There isn’t much to know about Hatford, other than he is a multi-million dollar entrepreneur (con-man) with a penchant for not being where he says he’s going to be.

That, and the fact that he is also Neil’s uncle, but Neil would rather the pickles.

He scoots over to the inside of the sidewalk, tucking himself along brick walls. New York is sharp in a way he hasn’t gotten used to, like it’ll slice him raw if he gets too close.

A chipped sign hanging on its last limb designates Stuart’s hangout, The Rising Sun, partly by name, mostly by appearance. The tavern has housed more shady men and crooked deals than actual customers and it’s left an almost discernable stain that keeps Neil on the edge.

Neil pushes past heavy oak doors and into the pub and regrets leaving his knives at home. Conversation stills, stale like the leftover smoke that hangs in the air. He closes his mouth ever so slightly as the briny tang of sweat and dirty money fills his nose and triggers a violent memory, a heavy cleaver and a bloodstained grin.

Surveying a room without being detected took many years and a few close calls to perfect, but Neil’s nothing if not thorough. Twenty people, all armed and affiliated with different branches of the Mafia, stood between him and the door.

He makes his way over to the stools, careful not to breathe too deeply, and slaps a crumpled twenty onto the sticky bar top. He doesn’t ask for Stuart by name, but nods and says, “Old fashioned. Extra bitters.”

The bartender gives Neil a meaningful look. “Out of bourbon.”

Stuart’s out of the country. Motherfucker.

“Shipment should be here Friday. Anything else?”

Neil shakes his head and grabs his money. Any other night he’d take the opportunity and drink himself into a stupor, but there’s a figure in the corner that’s been staring Neil down since he walked in and Neil just so happens to be in a real bad mood.

The figure steps into his peripheral vision, slow enough to seem casual, and Neil takes that as his cue to leave. He steps outside and it takes every ounce of hard-earned self-control not to bolt down the block. He keeps a steady pace and starts visualizing Downtown, mapping out the quickest way to the subway station. Only four more blocks.

A single liquor bottle rolls down the alleyway and Neil’s attention perks up.

The footsteps quicken behind him and Neil is a second away from pulling his fist back when a blur of movement catches his eye. Neil whips around as the man flies backward into the bricks and a shadow emerges from the black. The man makes the mistake of moving forward and is shoved back into the wall, a hunting knife to his throat.

“Now, is this the part where I say you’ve been very naughty,” the shadow turns and pins Neil down with a glare.“Or are you gonna edit that in. I do so love a good opinion piece.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my life somehow fell apart and picked itself back up in the span of 7 weeks. I moved, dealt with awful pest issues from past residents, got an internship, did LOTS of work for said internship, made friends, cried, unwittingly initiated quite a few family fights, and ate a significant amount of macaroni and cheese. 
> 
> My mental health is shit and I find myself less able to deal with seemingly normal things, but I'm trying and this story has been on my mind every single day. I've been writing a lot of OC things for my writing classes and so that's been taking up a lot of my time, but I promise this story is always on my mind and I apologize for such a long absence. I'm getting back into the groove, I promise <3
> 
> Let me know if you're still reading, I write this for you all in mind and I want to create a somewhat normal update system. I'm excited for chapter 4 (AKA when our lil vigilante will be PROPERLY INTRODUCED) 
> 
> Thank u Morgan for listening to me whine about this chapter for 7 weeks. You're the Real MVP. 
> 
> Tumblr's somewhere on my profile. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what we've been waiting for. 
> 
> Thanks to Alexis (fuzzballsheltiepants) for cleaning this up!

There aren’t many ways to leave Neil Josten speechless.

It’s a side effect of seeing a man dismembered before the age of five, Neil thinks. He’s unable to find the essence of human nature particularly surprising. It’s one of those things, like wearing mismatched socks or saying wed-nes-day in his head, that he doesn’t even notice anymore. It wasn’t until he applied to work at the newspaper that the road was paved for a few, rather odd, exceptions, like the time Matt ate discolored skittles from underneath the break room vending machine, or when Wymack ordered Neil takeout during his first all-nighter in the office.

Now, instead of expired candy or questionably charitable efforts, Neil is presented with a new, dangerous kind of dumbstruck. Coming face to face with the vigilante who has pulled Fox News and every other die-hard Republican into a near frenzy.

And who also knows who he is, apparently.

The vigilante jerks the man into the dark of the alleyway, leaving Neil no choice but to follow, cursing himself for not taping his recorder to the inside of his ankle. He can just make out the silver glint of trash cans in the half-light, his mind already assessing the practicality of a lid as a weapon.

He takes a few unhindered steps before the crunch of broken glass alerts the vigilante, who dissipates, _dissipates_ , molding into the shape of a man to flick Neil a look. Something shifts over his face, shadow-like, obscuring the upper-half like a liquid mask.

Wymack forgot to mention that bit. Motherfucker.

The air chills between them and shadows saturate the alleyway, coiling around him like wispy vipers, ready to strike. Neil holds up his hands, showing his cooperation. For now.

Satisfied, the vigilante turns back to the man, who bares his throat in defiance. Smoky fibers thread together into a gloved hand that presses harder into the thug’s neck.

“Forgive me,” the vigilante tuts, “but I’m not too fond of men who are out past their bedtime. Though, perhaps my bias is showing.”

“I’m—”

The vigilante grinds the thug’s cheek into the rough brick, ignoring the grunts of pain that seep from his bloodied mouth. “Shh,” the vigilante says, and If Neil didn’t know better, he’d believe it was almost soothing. “No talking.”

The darkness thickens in the alley and there’s nothing but a voice for Neil to anchor onto. He really should’ve brought that tape recorder.

Turning, Neil takes the trash lid and slips his arm through the handle like a makeshift shield. “I take it you’re the vigilante.”

It’s not the best one-liner—and as a journalist, he’s appalled—but it spills out before Neil can think of something more clever. Besides, he has a feeling playing stupid might be in his best interest if he wants to get any information tonight.

The vigilante stills, but doesn’t turn around. “Really? What gave it away?”

“Well, it wasn’t your stupid cape. Maybe you should invest in one.”

His grip becomes slack around the thug until the man slumps to the ground. The vigilante faces Neil for the second time that night and Neil gets a closer look at the tendrils of black coiling tight around his frame, like a figure draped in smoke. Behind him, the thug scrambles to make a run for it. Keeping his eyes on Neil, the vigilante hurls something behind him.

A knife, Neil realizes, was flung, sticking out of the man’s arm and pinning the thug to the brick wall. He spares a moment to visualize the map of major arteries his mother had forced him to memorize, but it looks like the blade had just missed the brachial artery.

“Run along. Grown-ups are speaking now.”

Neil almost scoffs, but he’s more concerned with the dark shadows that have escaped their owner in favor of threading between his own feet.

“Can you—” Neil tries to step out of the wiry black. “—control your… things?”

“Says the man who couldn’t help but insult the Chief of Police at his own press conference.”

The street lights flicker above Neil’s head as the darkness settles around them, and he briefly wonders if he’s actually in his apartment having a bourbon-induced dream where a snide, crime-fighting cloud is insulting him.

Unfortunately, the adrenaline running through his veins tells Neil he’s very much awake and the vigilante continues. “I can’t say I didn’t enjoy seeing Minyard lose his shit on national television, but I’m usually the one,” he makes a circular motion with his index finger. “Stirring the pot.”

Of course the vigilante would be at odds with the Chief of Police. Neil forgot his life is a goddamn Marvel adaptation.

“What I don’t understand,” the vigilante takes a step forward, darkness shrouding where his eyes should be, “is why every mid-sized paper in Manhattan is concerned with what I may, or may not, be doing.”

“I’m sure it has something to do with you making NYPD look bad,” Neil says, playing along. He’ll get Wymack the damn scoop, but it’ll cost him a bottle and everything he’s been hiding on the Moriyama case.

“And I’m sure they  _never_ do that on their own,” the vigilante says. His stance is predatory now, and Neil shuffles back until his heel hits a wooden crate. He needs to start asking questions. Now.

“Anyway, if it’s alright with you I’ll skip the formalities. I need a few quotes, a catch-phrase maybe, for the paper—”

“Gotta buy me dinner first, Josten.”

Neil almost flinches at the casual namedrop. Almost. “Also, do you have a name? Smokey is already taken, unfortunately. You know, by the bear—”

Suddenly, Neil’s pushed against the wall and the trash lid, yanked from his grasp, clatters against the bricks. “You better watch out, before I hand you over to the big, bad Moriyamas,” His tone is mocking, and Neil tries not to shiver at mention of the family. “They’re after you, you know. Maybe you shouldn’t be walking alone so late.”

If Smokey was looking for a way to shut Neil up, he found it.

They’re close enough that Neil can just make out the outline of a body, clad in dark, tight material and a face, eclipsed by a thin cloud of black. Neil stares back into the abyss, searching for something he can grab onto, something he can use to his advantage.

He settles on a curt, “Thanks, but I can take care of myself,” and tries to keep the fear out of his voice, but it pools in the back of his throat, sticky from the years of fending for himself.

The vigilante regards him a moment longer, before saying, “Get this on record. Tell Chief Minyard, the Tribune, and every other nosy fuck in Manhattan to stay the hell out of my way.”

Neil doesn’t have the energy to be offended, and his attention drifts back to the man behind them, who’s been pulling at the handle of the knife for the last five minutes. The wet slide of the blade against flesh throws Neil back to days when his only option was stitching himself together with a bottle of whiskey and his mother’s old suturing kit.

“Your guy is breaking free,” Neil says, nodding to the struggling thug.

“How about you do your job, and I’ll try to leave NYPD something to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient with me! Things are getting better, despite the odds, slowly but surely. I'm getting into the swing of writing again and updates should start to feel a semi-consistent. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter, let me know! leave a comment or kudos. I appreciate them so much, and I read them whenever I'm down. Thank you again!
> 
> ALSO, is Smokey the Bear an American thing? (I think so) sorry if my joke went over your head!


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